


More Than Slightly

by thesilverarrow



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Outdoor Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-09
Updated: 2012-07-09
Packaged: 2017-11-09 12:31:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/455477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesilverarrow/pseuds/thesilverarrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It helped when Lestrade actually was fairly annoyed with the man about something. Anything, really, to have the excuse to shove Sherlock up against a wall, knee between his long legs, to bite his neck, leaving a bruise where only Sherlock would see it, hidden under that stupid scarf.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	More Than Slightly

"You are not running over a cantaloupe with my car."

Lestrade already had his arms crossed, standing there looking out at the drizzly late morning cityscape, but he didn't bother to raise his voice. Sherlock probably didn't actually need to experiment to know if a human head could survive an encounter with an automobile tire. He was just pushing – pointless irritation or some kind of test, Lestrade wasn't sure. It didn't really matter; Sherlock was here at the crime scene, which was just as much a help as a pain in the bollocks. Sometimes more so, if he's honest with himself.

On the sidewalk a few yards away, John sighed and called out, "You'll not likely find a good cantaloupe this time of year anyway."

Looking up from his crouched position over the sheeted figure on the pavement, Sherlock gave Lestrade a look that said, _See, that was the correct answer_. Never mind that he asked the question in the first place. 

Of course, it was never about the particular question, just the form of the thing. They'd been doing this dance since they met: Sherlock provokes, and Lestrade attempts to ignore him until he can't anymore. What he does when he finally blows his fuse is anybody's guess, and he has a feeling that's part of the attraction for Sherlock. 

Sometimes he grows so stern John grimaces and Sherlock has the good grace to stop talking for a while. Those times, he seems like the man he'd been when he and Holmes had met, the man he'd had to be to get him clean and sober. Sometimes – more often now that John's around – when he wants to bellow and shake the man by the shoulders he instead suddenly finds the anger evaporating, leaving behind a kind of giddy smile. Looked at objectively, most of Sherlock's behavior is fairly ridiculous, and he reacts like a bratty child: nothing makes him more angry than ignoring him. 

Lately, however, there was mostly just a lot of yelling. _What the bloody hell is wrong with you?_ or _Can you just follow the sodding rules for once in your goddamn life?_ It was all a part of the show. Sherlock could tell when he was grousing mostly for the benefit of the audience and when he had actually come unglued. It little mattered which; the point was that he did it. 

And now, these last couple of months, the even more important point was that he pulled Sherlock away from everyone else for such reprimands. Then, they could do a lot less operatic bickering and a lot more fumbling with belts and buttons and zippers. It helped when Lestrade actually _was_ fairly annoyed with the man about something. Anything, really, to have the excuse to shove Sherlock up against a wall, knee between his long legs, to bite his neck, leaving a bruise where only Sherlock would see it, hidden under that stupid scarf.

Today, Sherlock walked ahead of him, and with his long stride he was already standing there waiting, looking bored and put upon with his hands shoved in his pockets, one leg bent, a dark boot holding him up off the wall. 

"Could you _be_ any more obvious?" Sherlock said.

"Could you be any less interested in at least pretending I'm here to give you a good talking to?"

Deadpan, he murmured, "Ooh, scold me, Detective Inspector."

At that, Lestrade finally stepped forward, and he placed his hand on Sherlock's chest, setting him off balance enough that he took his foot down. Soon, he was dutifully immobile between Lestrade and the wall, and helplessly radiating a kind of eager tension. 

Lestrade was tempted to lean forward, whisper in his ear, watch him shiver. Instead, he jerked open the knot in Sherlock's scarf, barking, "Remind me again why I'm shagging you."

"I haven't the faintest idea what your interest in this is."

As Lestrade attacked the buttons on Sherlock's long coat, Sherlock did the same for his. Much less patiently.

Lestrade replied, "I could say the same for you, you know."

At that, Sherlock grinned and leaned his head back against the wall. He was ridiculously sexy like that, even if he was stupendously irritating. His coat fell away from narrow hips in dark trousers, into which was tucked a crisp white shirt, top button undone. Overconfident little shit.

Sherlock smirked and said, "Really, if you haven't deduced—"

He returned the hand to Sherlock's chest so he could jolt him against the wall. 

"I know you like to be manhandled, and we both apparently get our rocks off on the notion of getting caught or whatever it is. Beyond that…"

Sherlock reached up and plucked at the lapel of Lestrade's coat. He eyed him intently but playfully. That still rattled him a bit – how downright amiable Sherlock could be if he put his mind to it. 

"For my part," Sherlock said, "I find you a pleasing balance of predictability and spontaneity. You are physically solid and mentally deliberate, but not particularly apprehensive about pushing your own boundaries. You smell nice, and you are, in your own way, quite clever, and decidedly more observant than John."

"That so?"

"Tell me how it is that you knew what I wanted today."

"You mean beyond that barmy cantaloupe business and your usual condescending nattering?"

"Yes."

"Are you actually curious, or do you just want me to impress you with my deductive skills?"

"Yes."

Lestrade rolled his eyes, but he finally let his body come into full contact with Sherlock's. He was so warm, and he smelled like sweat and soap when Lestrade dipped his head to press a quick, nipping kiss to the underside of his jaw. 

Mouth still hovering there, he murmured, "You only have one suit you're willing to risk roughing up against a brick wall. You always wear it when you make eyes at me."

Sherlock swallowed, nervous, but he said flatly: "I don't make eyes."

Lestrade pulled back to look at his face. "No, you make a mouth. You are a bloody tease, is what you are."

Sherlock just nodded, smiling faintly. Then, after a pause, he said, "Do you know what else this suit is good for?"

"Hmm?"

"Roughing up on the filthy pavement."

He waited just long enough for his words to register, long enough for Lestrade to suck in a quick breath of shock and arousal, before he knelt down and began working at his belt.

Thus far, they'd only done some furtive mutual wanking in back rooms and alleyways adjacent to crime scenes, and once at the office. Utilitarian and rough, it didn't require much connection between them. Certainly, there had been no kissing, at least not on the mouth, and not unless one classed kissing as a species of biting. Understandably, then, he had no conception of the man being willing to do something as downright intimate as suck his cock. 

He was half hard when Sherlock took him in hand, but he filled up fast enough. This was going to be a memory good enough to wank to for ages: Sherlock's eyes dark and warm with lust, and his tongue darting out to touch the tip of his cock. He gasped so loudly he thought he could hear it echo off the walls and into the street. A moment later, Sherlock was wrapping his long fingers around the root of his cock and closing his hot, wet mouth over the rest. Only then did Lestrade completely register their surroundings, the cool, damp air, the oh-so-open grey sky above them, the noise of traffic from the street. The slick sound of mouth against skin.

Lestrade used one hand to brace against the wall while his other hand flew up to cover his mouth, muffling his groans if not stopping them altogether. Eventually, Sherlock took his hand off his cock and he held him by both hips so that he could take him deeper with his mouth. He didn't take all of him, but it was enough. He felt so tightly strung he was practically vibrating.

The hand on Sherlock's neck gripped a little harder as he muttered, "I'm gonna…"

Sherlock didn't pull off as he came. He just kept swallowing against the head of his cock as he came in spurt after spurt. A warmth flooded Lestrade's limbs as the tension of the morning drained away.

Sherlock wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, but he made no movement to get off his knees, just tugged at his own belt and fly. By the time he got his hand around his cock, he was looking up at Lestrade, eyes half unfocused but mouth still twisted in a friendly smirk.

"You know," he said, "I don't actually get off on almost getting caught. I—" He shuddered, and his hand sped up a bit. "Ah, fuck."

"You what?"

Through gritted teeth, he replied, "I get off… on you… getting off on it."

He gave him a quizzical look, and Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but all that came out was a long, ragged breath as he shot off on the ground between them. 

"Breast pocket," he said with an inclination of his head. He held his hands out in front of him, trying to keep the sticky fluid from soiling his clothes.

Lestrade retrieved his handkerchief, and Sherlock used it to clean himself up. There were a couple of wet spots on his shirt tail, but they vanished from sight as he tucked himself back into his pants. His knees were a bit dirty, but, then again, it wasn't unheard of for Sherlock to do his investigative dirty work himself. Lestrade sincerely doubted anyone would know anything had been amiss with the man, except maybe by looking at his eyes, and that unguarded contentment wouldn't last long. Lestrade, for his part, always came out of these encounters feeling pleasantly bewildered, sure it was as obvious to others as if he were wearing a neon sign. Not that that wasn't part of the fun. Trust the bastard to have figured that out and used it to his own advantage.

"Seriously," Lestrade said, "how did you know I…?"

"Donovan talks when she drinks."

He sighed, rubbing his hand over his face. "Goddammit," he murmured.

"Ah," Sherlock replied with a small smile. "So you two _have_?" 

"Oh, fuck you."

"No, fuck Donovan, apparently. She does not talk, that I know of. But you do. And John listens and does a fairly accurate job of interpretation. I, on the other hand, simply observe the way you try and utterly fail not to stare at her chest."

"Nice tits, yeah?"

"But objectively mediocre -- at least to one who hasn't seen them up close, as it were."

"Yeah, trust me mate."

"I do," he said with an enigmatic smile.

They were just loitering in the alleyway now, as though reluctant to return to the real world. He knew they ought to. Really. John did indeed listen, and he was much more observant than Sherlock apparently thought. So is Donovan. Even if they weren't, eventually someone would come looking for them, for the boss and for the brain, for the necessary balance of making the rules and breaking them.

It was just as possible they'd send out a search party because the two of them have been gone so long people might begin to suspect they'd killed each other. 

"Holmes, why are you always so coy about this?"

"About what?"

"Propositioning me. You know, covert signals with the come-fuck-me suit and all."

"Is this between us not a secret?"

"Not precisely. Definitely not a secret from me, anyway."

"I've found that such proposals are best made obscurely." 

"You've found?" 

"In general, people think my forthrightness disconcerting." 

"I don't." 

"No, you don't, do you?" he said, his eyes narrowing. "Not anymore."

"Not ever, really. Just annoying. But it's a relief sometimes, and it occasionally passes for charming."

Sherlock just snorted. 

Lestrade continued: "Look, I just wanted to say you can stop being so…roundabout when you want to do this. Or anything else. I trust you can find a straightforward way to make your wishes known without alerting the whole department to what we're doing."

"Which is…?"

"Shagging."

Sherlock let a pause hang in the air for a moment, then he said quietly, "Properly speaking, we've now engaged in just about everything but."

"Is that something you want?"

"Anal sex?" 

He winced a bit. "Yes, that."

"I would like to try."

"You've never…?"

"I've never any of it, until now. Not with men, anyway."

"You're serious."

Sherlock just nodded.

Of course. Of course Sherlock's first blowjob happens in an alley in Hackney, and he's fine with that. And, fuck, he's _good_ at it. 

"Jesus," Lestrade murmured. "I've only really fooled around with men, never… You know, with a bloke."

Sherlock took in this information with a blank face, but he looked away before he said, "It's not a deal breaker, if you don't—"

"No," Lestrade barked. Sighing, he held his hands up and added, "What I'm saying is I don't know what I'm doing either, but I'm willing to try. What I _do_ know is we'd probably want to find a new venue."

Eyebrows raised, Sherlock turned his head and smiled. "A bed perhaps?"

"For starters."

"Yours is a small double, but—"

"How do you know what size my bed is?"

"Would you like me to take the time to make up some kind of convoluted deductive reasoning, or should I just remind you I was once in your flat, back in the glorious dark ages of my drug use. I don't forget that sort of thing."

Lestrade felt a chill run down his spine. A very good chill. "You've had your eye on me for a while, then, hmm?" 

"Long enough. I, too, am deliberate. So, as I was saying, you have a small double, but I have a queen."

"You also have a flatmate."

He waved his hand. "We do have separate bedrooms. Also, John has taught me the fine art of signaling one's intention to engage in intercourse so that one is not interrupted."

Lestrade chuckled to himself, imagining Sherlock deciding which cashmere sock to sacrifice for the doorknob. 

"Will he care if he finds out?"

"Literally care? Yes. John cares about everything," he said in a sardonic tone. "But if you mean whether he'll try to warn us off of each other, I think not."

"It will drive him crazy trying to figure it out."

"But he will. He's that obstinate."

"Tell him, then."

"You're sure?"

Not really, he thought. He wasn't sure of any of this, but it was too fucking tempting. So he just nodded, and, pushing himself up off the wall, he gestured in the direction of the street. 

They were almost at the corner when Lestrade brought them to a halt.

"Does John talk when he drinks? To you, I mean."

"Only if pressed. And, really, who would believe the two of us are, as you say, shagging?"

"Certainly not me."

"Oh, yes, I forgot. You're the one running the poll about when John and I will declare our undying love for each other."

"More like when you'll finally start having it off."

"That, too."

"Any inside information you want to share?"

"Not unless someone's backdated their bet."

"Seriously?"

"No," he said in a bewildered, affronted squeak. "John's as straight as they come."

"But _you_ would?"

Evenly, he replied, "He's my friend."

"And what am I?"

He considered for a moment, looking into his eyes, almost as if searching for something.

Finally, with a mischievous smile, he said, "My slightly bent colleague?"

More than slightly, he thought, watching Sherlock's long, lean body as it strode ahead of him, back around the corner to the crime scene. And more than just a colleague.

**Author's Note:**

> Please to be remembering that it was Sherlock insulting Vinette Robinson's breasts, not me.


End file.
